ARK

Short Story Winners

In every collaboration you will find a short story published at the end. The story will be in the same genre as the book it features in, and was the winning story in a competition we run alongside each collaboration. The winner and runner-up are featured below. Both stories are exceptional and it was a very tricky choice to award first place. Congratulations to both of these tremendous authors. More details about our short story competitions can be found HERE.

1st Place awarded to Cayce BerrymanHuman Against All Odds

Villains are not determined by their actions but by
their potential to do bad things. I wasn’t always a villain, just like I wasn’t
always human. No one wants a deformed creature living amongst them, and when
that creature is young, humans find exile easier.

“Get rid of the abomination before it destroys us
all!”

That’s what they said and what they tried to do.
The only problem is that they failed, and their actions created the enmity
needed to make me what they feared I’d become.

The wet grime providing life for the sickly green shoots
in the warm season forms a ghastly white to my gray skin. The sun warms the
land, and my body swells until the return of the cold season.

The ground isn’t good for much. It makes my hands
brittle because it gives way to my claws easily, like wet soil to the burrowing
Silkien fish in my own world and the beach clams which claim sand in this
world.

Oh, how I remember my world, its turf expanding
for turns longer than the Earth’s curved surface could dream of stretching.
Though I had only lived there a year, a Silayan never forgets. I’ve never
forgotten the day my world fell to the death of the black hole consuming its
surface, pulling it bit by bit into nothingness forever. I’ve never forgotten the
screams echoing through the last portal I selfishly buried in the ground for my
own use. I’ve never forgotten the pain I experienced upon my arrival to a new
plane, so much closer to the sun that my skin wished to melt off my back. I’ve
never forgotten, and for a young Silayan offspring who left their colony to
die, the memory alone is enough torment.

I circle my claw in the dirt above, licking my lips
as water drips off the hovering roots, warning me of the new rain welcoming the
warm season again. Humans celebrate this time, and even after years of my heart
slowing and succumbing to a constant chill, I cannot bring myself to do the
same. I despise what the sun will do to my skin, darkening it to mirror porous,
human flesh. The sun has powers of change not unknown to those of my world but
still unfamiliar to us.

I do not know the humans’ lifespan, so I make sure
to hide beneath the soil until I feel the hatred dissipate. After one hundred
years, I watch humans from a distance, scrambling for food and shelter before
the cold season. They rejoice when the sun returns with food.

Every warm season, I call upon the stars to take
the life of a child, and they curse the villain they know still lives. They think
me an evil being, so I comply. Every cry resounding from a young life reminds
me of the one I couldn’t live…the one I was denied because of a human’s
incapable mind. No amount of life satisfies my thirst.

I have to stop after a century passes, and I wait
for another century to return. Death doesn’t please me, and I will never feel
satisfied seeking vengeance from a helpless tribe.

My heart is slowing even
more, now; I know I need to walk into the village this time. Silayans cannot
survive more than half a millennium without a colony, else we do not adapt to
the changing climate. I can feel the Earth change, but I’m not changing with
it. As Silayans live off the flowing blood within the colony, mine has slowed
in the last century. Now, even the sun’s warmth does not alleviate the chill of
a slowing heart.

A weakening body does not help me walk into the
human colony, but without their acceptance, my heart will stop before the cold
season returns. I’ve waited too long to accept the fate of joining such a
primitive species. Because my skin mimics their own, my towering above them
only provides them one oddity to glance at, disturbed, before norms of society
remind them not to stare.

Walking down rows of small houses and thatched
roofs, I glance at small children chasing each other across the soft ground.
Each child sends sharpened staffs, large fires, and screams into my mind, and
the memory of reddened human faces quickens my pace.

The blue linea of interitus stretch from the sky,
ready to strike down anything I wish, as they did centuries before. The power
of stars never leaves a Silayan, but I swore never to use it, else I will give
into the frenzy and will kill another race.

Uplifted voices tug an irritated thread in my
chest, but I swallow it, knowing I have to learn to like those who would hate
me if they knew me.

Another child races by, and I turn around, feeling
the slivers of interitus plead for further direction and a target. I could give
them one—every child in this generation. Their small faces bring the gray face
of my youth into the forefront of my mind, fear shading the once selfish
innocence of my being.

“Sir?” a
miniscule voice whispers.

I turn to face a child whose eyes look the same color
as my skin once had. I recognize “sir” as a gender affiliation; however, I
never understood the purpose of gender, aside from procreation.

I nod and the child flashes its teeth at me before
grasping one claw with the other. “Do you have any food?”

The words make me face him completely. I know of
young children who ask for food or shelter. They are denied the same as I. I
have always made sure not to strike them, but to instead strike the children
who are entitled to such things. I never need food, but while I’ve sought a
colony to sustain my life, humans seem to thrive by devouring other life.

I shake my head, regretting immediately that I
have not taken time to learn the words of humans. I hadn’t thought of it, nor
did I feel the need. Communication works equally well through the body, but
humans seem to need multiple languages. Watching them allows me to understand
their words, but I never considered trying to speak them. I don’t even know if
I can.

“Well,” it persists, brushing back the fur atop its
head and holding it at its shoulders. “Do you have…”

I shake my head before it continues; I have
nothing to offer. Still, I hurt for the child. I came to Earth expecting help,
though I received only hate for my oddities. This child threatens no one, yet it
still is denied the right to life.

A sparkle leaves its eyes and it remains as
defenseless as it was when approaching me. Without any hope for sustenance, the
child turns and asks the next passerby, who turns away before it finishes
asking. I dig my nails into my palms, holding back the urge to change my target
and strike the elders who deny helpless lives their needs. The humans are worse
than I thought.

I growl at myself for having nothing for the
child, feeling as useless as the humans. The language of movement allowed me to
see much, and this child only wants what anyone could have provided. Before
digging another hole into the cool soil, a soft thump draws me to a hollow
trunk. Small, brown creatures with long ears cower after a glance at the face recognized
as human, and I smile. I grab the two thick pairs of ears and turn back toward
the colony.

The child looks up, startled, when I kneel on the
ground beside it. A glint of hope shimmers in its eyes, and it pulls long locks
of hair away from its soft, gentle face. After risking a quick glance at the
creatures in my hand, it smiles softly. I hand it the dead carcasses, and it
throws me another pair of wide eyes.

“For me?”

I nod, this time giving it a smile of my own. I
close my mouth when I remember the odd sharpness of my teeth, but the child
doesn’t cower and, instead, throws its body into mine, covering me with tears.
Immediately, the heat of the sun bares on me harshly. My eyes dart around at
the forming circle of elderly humans. Tears form on a few faces and they turn
away, returning with round, brown lumps and colorful fruit. Before long, other
rejected children meet the one beside me, sharing their tears and thanks.

It doesn’t make sense, but I don’t care. I
continue ensuring the lives of those children prosper, and the act encourages
the colony to come together as mine once had. My blood flows strongly, and my
winter-gray skin barely surprises them when it appears. They once declared me
to be an evil creature for my appearance, but this time they don’t. This time,
I am an angel.

This time, I’m the guardian.

About Cayce Berryman

Cayce lives in Corpus Christi, TX. Her writing career began with her first poem in 2005, which grew into dozens of poems and short stories that she eventually had published in her high school literary magazines.

She serves as Managing Editor of the Del Mar College Foghorn newspaper and freelance editor for articles, fiction, and non-fiction works. She is a trained, certified member of American Writers and Artists Inc. (AWAI), and her offered services as a copywriter include travel articles and fundraising copy. She claims her freelance editing and her own fiction writing as her passions above all else. However, she knows and humbles herself with the knowledge that even skilled writers and editors can always learn more, so she is a current student, earning her degree in Creative Writing & English with a concentration in Fiction, while also earning her associates in Journalism at Del Mar College.

Runner Up awarded to Mike SmithIn The Blink Of An Eye

"Dedicated to my Dad. Always supportive of our shared passion for photography and writing. These words will always remind me of you."

Charlie Sydcup had finished his night shift
at St. Thomas' hospital. Breathing in the fresh Thames air, he walked along
South Bank in search of some sustenance finally stopping at his favourite
coffee shop where he ordered a latte and bacon sandwich. He sat down for some
brief respite and, out of the side pocket of his rucksack, retrieved his camera,
switching it on; the lens extended out from the front. Breathing heavily on the
outside element, he gazed as a layer of mist formed, then used a cloth to wipe
the glass. He had a couple of hours before he needed to be back home and there
were a number of buildings in the City of London he wanted to visit and
photograph.

Today he was excited because his digital
camera had just returned from the specialist repairers. It had actually been in
for modification and was now converted to record video in near infra-red, or
NIR as it was known. Not only did the video have an ethereal quality in NIR,
but it enabled him to record things you couldn't see with the naked eye. What
was unusual, and he was keen to test, was the slow-motion functionality on the
camera. Recording at up to 1000 frames per second, he could see every movement,
every expression, no matter how fleeting.

He walked out of the coffee shop and strode
onward until he came to the Millennium Footbridge, connecting South Bank to the
City of London. After crossing the river, the streets became narrower, winding
their way through the heart of the city. He filtered his way through the
burgeoning city of commuters before arriving at Bank, the crossroads where the Bank
of England was based. The city radiated out from this point and the core of
grandiose buildings was encircled by modern skyrise, each creating its own
imprint on the city's character - the Gherkin, Cheese Grater, Walkie Talkie.

Crossing the road, he darted between
recently emptied rubbish bins, around protective railings and under discrete
shop hoardings until he found himself standing outside 20 Fenchurch Church -
aka the Walkie Talkie due to its distinctive shape. Removing the tripod from
his bag, he extended the legs and clamped them tight before mounting the camera
on top. He was filming short segments and wanted to capture a range of
interactions between people - builders coming and going, shoppers mingling,
businessmen marching between meetings. He framed up the width of the building
so that people were shown in their context. A young man in a pin stripe suit
and shining cufflinks barged passed a dithering young couple and drew curses in
return. Charlie replayed the footage and slowed the motion down - the man had a
swagger, a smirk on his face. His body leaned in to the motion and, like the
bow of a ship crashing through a wave, he tossed the couple aside.

He started recording again, focused upon
his equipment, ensuring it was set up correctly. Then he heard it - a yell,
loud, clear, startled. This was followed by a sharp crack, the sound of a dead weight hitting a hard surface. Then
screams followed. Charlie looked up as across the street chaos erupted - the
frenetic movement of limbs, people, accompanied by shouts and screams. Then a strange
stillness: eyes staring, mouths agape, a shocked silence. And in the centre - a
motionless body, splayed on the pavement, blood seeping from stained clothes.
Life draining away into the cracks below. Charlie could clearly see a builder -
the large boots and rough-hewn clothes, the helmet spinning away from him.
People were thrust into action, phoning for an ambulance, creating space,
attending to the body, attempting first aid.

A strange compulsion seized Charlie - had
he really filmed the fall? Instead of rushing to help he replayed the file at
half-speed. People moved backwards and forwards, slowly, slowly... and then the
body appeared, in freefall. Even in slow motion the speed surprised him and
whilst there was no sound playing, he could see people flinch when the body
came to rest.

What
was that? he thought, looking at the screen on the
camera.

He rewound the clip and slowed it down to a
tenth of the speed. The body appeared, passed through the scene and hit the
pavement. It was a sudden, violent, death, the head rolled toward him.

He slowed it down to a hundredth of a
second. The body, pavement, head, the eyes looking straight at him, at the
camera - FLASH. He paused the film -
a white flash filled the frame, bleaching the scene, obscuring everything the
camera recorded. It looked like a camera flash, but stronger, more powerful…
from the eyes.

Charlie replayed it again - the image etched
on his memory. He paused, trying to understand before snapping out of his
reverie. He snatched the camera from the top of the tripod, rapidly collapsing
it and stuffing his kit into his rucksack. Crossing the street and working his
way back up to Bank he jumped aboard the first red bus back to St. Pauls,
before switching on to a second bus running out to Elephant and Castle. Whilst
travelling he kept replaying the clip over and over in his mind.

The bus was empty, running away from the
city in the rush hour, as it trundled along bustling streets, jammed with cars.
Charlie got off the bus and walked along next to Albany Park back towards the
Aylesbury Estate. Whilst he lived in a slightly ageing tower block, the area
was undergoing renovation. He slapped his card against the lock on the gated
entrance and slipped through to the lift. After pressing the ‘Call’ button and the
inevitable wait, there was a ping and
the doors opened. The tin box accelerated upwards to the fifthteenth floor,
where he exited, sliding the key into the lock and opening the door.

His one-bedroom flat was spartan, but clean
and tidy. The open plan kitchen-diner was off one end of the entrance hall,
with the bedroom at the other. He went in to it, extracting his camera before
flinging the rucksack on to the bed.

Switching the computer on, he put the SD
card from the camera in to the reader on the computer; the videos were then automatically
extracted and stored on the internal drive. Loading the last video file, he
dragged the timeline slider to the end and again played at one tenth speed the
builder falling through the frame. There it was, top-to-bottom, thud, head lolling, the eyes. He slowed
the motion down to one hundredth of a second and rewound it. Thud, head loll, the eyes - flash.

Charlie froze the screen then took a screen
dump and loaded the image in to his processing software. His reduced the
brightness on the screen and, to his surprise, realised that the image wasn't saturated. Given the brightness
of the light he had assumed that what he was looking at was pure white. He
wasn't. He masked off the white flash and applied a reduction in brightness,
boosting the contrast in the image. Given the high resolution of the image, the
process took some time to complete. He waited impatiently as the percentage
indicator on the taskbar slowly inched its way across the screen. Areas of high
and low contrast appeared first, followed by shapes, outlines, the edge of a
building, the figure of a person. It finally came in to focus… he realised he
was looking at himself!! He was stood in the street, next to his tripod and
camera. The view was from the builder, his last conscious vision of the
bustling Fenchurch Street before he died.

He had a thought - the whole flash was one tenth of a second in
duration which equated to one hundred frames on his video. He skipped back fifty
frames and froze the image. The flash was there, less intense but clearly
visible. He extracted the image and ran it through the same process. The
processing took its time, but gradually the scene emerged on his screen - a
rough floor, concrete ceiling, sky, people with helmets. It was the building
site, presumably the floor the man had been on. The image was paler, lacking
detail and contrast, clearly not as well formed as the previous scene he had
looked at.

Charlie yawned - it had been a heck of a
morning and he was due back in work at eight that night. He needed sleep. Going
back to the video stream he extracted the complete tenth of a second flash and buffered it a tenth of a
second either side. These were then exported as individual frames creating
three hundred files - he initiated an image processing batch job and set it
running. Switching the monitor off, he pulled the curtains, put ear plugs in
and curled up under the duvet - before long he was in a deep sleep.

***

Evening dawned and Charlie awoke to the
quiet of a summer night, with just the occasional sound of his neighbours indicating
life. He jumped out of bed and in one stride was in front of his computer. Flicking
the switch on the monitor, the screen burst in to life - the cursor blinked
indicating the batch job had finished. He loaded the image viewer and used the
scroll wheel on his mouse to cycle between the images. As before the first
images were faint, like a degraded memory, low in contrast and slightly fuzzy.
The first gave him broad shapes but as he progressed through them they became more
solid, firmer, taking on the appearance of people. The view moved across the
building - a fixing was placed in the wall, before it pinged straight back out,
straight towards him. He sensed the head tilt back, then moving backwards
before a jolt to the vision. The head rotated backwards suddenly looking at sky
and then the world flying past. It all stopped, the head slid sideways and,
across the street, he stood looking back at himself. As the image faded the
scene changed - it was a kitchen, morning sun streamed in through the back
window. As he looked at the view he realised he was standing, facing a woman
with long blond hair; she had thin pursed lips, a visible layer of foundation
and heavy mascara. The facial expression turned to a scowl as the scene faded.

Charlie sat back - the sequence of images
must have been the last moments of the builder as he plunged to his death. The
scene was unmistakably 20 and could
only have been that morning - he recognised the young couple looking back in to
the scene as the events unfolded. But the ending… what was that? Who was the
woman?

Charlie paused, reflecting upon the last
scene that had flashed before him. It had clearly happened before the morning’s events, before the builder’s death. Was that
his wife? He could see the disapproval, the anger, being directed at the
builder. The death was clearly significant,
traumatic, and he had assumed that he was simply watching a ‘replay’ of the
scene. But was the significance more
important? Was this last scene an argument? An event seared in to the memory?

"Maybe I’m looking in to his soul,” he
whispered to himself. “And it's not only what
I’m seeing, but how I’m seeing
it!"

The flash of light was fast – a tenth of a
second – and he had only managed to capture it because the builder had been
looking straight at him. And given the sensitivity of the camera to NIR it
couldn’t be visible to the human eye. And if light was coming out, being
emitted, from the eyes how was it being generated and how did it produce those
images?

He looked at his watch and realised that time
was getting tight for him to return to work on time. He threw the camera in the
rucksack, left the flat and ran down the stairs, jumping four at a time until
he reached the bottom. This time he went out the back and grabbed his bike from
the secure storage area. He left via the rear entrance and cycled up to
Waterloo Station before turning alongside the Thames and then switching on to
the river footpath. He arrived at the hospital building and padlocked his bike
in the parking area before entering through the lower staff entrance.

Charlie went to the staff lockers and threw
his uniform on, clipping his ID badge to the outside. He slipped his camera in
his pocket and walked over to the main building before going through the double
doors of Jeffries, a ward for elderly male patients.

"Good evening Jane" he jovially
greeted the nurse in charge of the ward.

"Evening Charlie. You OK?" she
replied.

"Of course! I'm starting here tonight,
but just need to do a site walk first."

"No problems,” she called. “Just shout
if you need anything."

She smiled at him and then carried on with
her paperwork. He slowly made his way down the room making a mental note of the
patients in their beds. Most had headphones on and were watching TV - visiting
had finished so the place was quiet.

He was interested in the private suite at
the end of the ward that the staff called eel
which was a bastardisation of EoL for End of Life. It was where patients
expecting to pass away were taken to offer specialist care and privacy for
family members. Looking through the window he saw an elderly man sleeping. He quickly
glanced over his shoulder and, with everyone else busy, slipped in to the room.
The patient's notes - a Mr Stowe - showed that he was emaciated and clearly in
very poor health requiring supplementary oxygen. Two things jumped off the page
- he had a DNR and no next-of-kin. Thoughts raced… could he?

He retreated from the room, his mind
swimming in possibilities. He needed to work, to think. Come back later. He
walked back down the ward and, just outside the doors, opened the facilities
storage room to collect his large double-broom, bucket and mop. He worked his
way systematically through the ward, sweeping all the large open areas first,
before cleaning under and around beds and cabinets. Some areas were curtained
off so these he left. His mind still raced… the old man was dying, going to
die. Could he capture that moment? After sweeping he moved on to mopping the
floor. He cleaned around the nurses’ station, smiling at Jane. She was
illuminated by a small desk lamp in the darkness of the now asleep ward.

He worked his way back down the central
aisle - it was 2am, the ward was deathly quiet. He looked in to the eel room –
with the man still asleep Charlie again entered. He made a snap decision – with
his heart racing, he pulled the camera out of his pocket, securing it to a
portable camera mount and wrapping the flexible legs around the TV bracket high
up on the wall. He set the camera to record, checking the image, before
leaving.

With Jeffries complete, Charlie moved to
the ward on the floor above, working his way slowly through the room. By 5am he
had finished and went back down to Jeffries - he placed his cleaning equipment
in the storage room before walking back in to the ward. A new nurse - Gemma -
was now working.

"Morning Charlie - did you have a good
night?" she said.

"Hey Gemma. Yes, no dramas. All done
and dusted - literally!" She smiled at his response.

"Mr Stowe…" His voice tailed off.
"How's he doing?"

Gemma looked sad. "He didn't make it -
no relatives. Can you believe that? He died peacefully."

"He was fine when I looked in at
2am," Charlie replied.

"He took a turn for the worse around
3:30am so I went in to him."

"At least he had someone with him at
the end." Charlie paused, letting the moment hang, briefly.

"I just need to clean one of the
cubicles that was busy last night, then I'm done."

"No problems Charlie. I'll see you
later."

Charlie went back and grabbed his brush and
mop, before heading down to the eel room. Checking he was alone, he slid in
through the doorway - the room was empty, tidy. He looked up - his camera was
there, still recording. He clicked it off, put it back in his pocket and left.
As fast as he could, he finished his duties before he dashed back down to his
locker. Stripping off the uniform, he grabbed his rucksack and raced out the exit.
His collected his bike, unlocking it from the railing.

The adrenalin was building as he thought
about the enormity of what he had just done. He began cycling, retracing his route
through the London streets before arriving back at his flat slightly flushed. He
took the lift up and bounded in through the front door, straight to the
bedroom. Turning his PC on, he took the memory card out of the camera and
immediately started downloading the footage.

Loading the clip in to the video software
he scrolled forward to 3:30am. Gemma entered the room, but Mr Stowe was still
asleep. She went up to him and checked his vital signs, before moving back to
the oxygen supply. With her finger on the power button she paused, looked back
at the old man, then flicked the switch. The airflow stopped - slowly the man
became starved of oxygen as the blood, depleted of supply, surged around his
body. The chest heaved as he tried to take deeper breaths. On the video Charlie
could see him coughing as his lungs began to retch, trying to take in more air.
His eyes flashed open - he was alive. Charlie could sense his weakened state,
his inability to function. His head moved slowly as the eyes tried to rove
around the room. Could he see? Gemma continued to look at the old man. There
was a pause, then his head swung around to her, fixing at her position. The
lines on his face changed, relaxed, as recognition swept across his expression.
She said something – his expression instantly changed to one of panic.

The
breaths became shorter, faster, shallower - the chest heaved, the body
strained.

FLASH

He passed away.

Gemma flicked the machine back on and left
the room.

Charlie pressed pause, shocked by what he
had just witnessed. He realised his heart was racing, blood pumping around his
body.

What
next, he thought.

Snapping back to the moment he realised he
should process the footage. He clipped the video to a tenth of a second either
side of the flash and then set the same batch job running. He couldn't stop
thinking about what he had seen recorded but he had to sleep - he changed in to
a tracksuit and t-shirt before lying down in bed to try to rest. But his mind
raced - he wasn't asleep, yet he wasn't awake. His kept replaying the scene in
his mind - oxygen calmly switched off, eyes clicking open to relief then panic.
The stillness. It played again - this time he saw the flash in slow motion, his
mind inserting images of his own father into the scene. He didn't know if he
was awake, in a reality he had just walked in to.

There was a loud beep.

Shit, he thought to himself.

He had forgotten to mute the monitor and
his tortured sleep was interrupted. Then his conscious brain kicked in - the
batch job had finished. He clambered out of the bed and back to the PC - it was
midday. The cursor flashed on the monitor, the image processing was complete.

Charlie started viewing the images - they
began quite faint and slowly increased in density and contrast, forms taking
shape. The inside of the hospital room with institutional fluorescent lights
flickering overhead. The view panned down – the TV at the end of the room,
mounted high, the end of the bed, a retractable table with a cup of water,
reading glasses. The image was still blurred, swinging left - the door, a
person. The movement stopped and slowly the image sharpened – he saw Gemma
stood next to the oxygen supply. She lent forward, mouthing words – there was
clear reaction as the view began to shake as recognition turned to panic. The
view faded as Mr. Stowe breathed his last, changing to the last memory imprint
– it was dark, slowly light filtered in to the scene. Two hands, a steering
wheel. The head tilted back and he could see traces of blood. An accident?
Looking through the window screen, the car had hit a lamppost, the windscreen
smashed, bonnet crumpled. The car looked old… no new. Charlie realised it was a
new car, but an old model. When was this? The image shifted to the left and
there sat next to the driver was a woman. His wife? She was crumpled against
the dash board, a severe gash to her head. Again the view shifted as the person
looked over their shoulder in to the back seat, where a school girl sat, wearing
black trousers, light blue shirt, tie and blazer. She had her seatbelt on, but
was clearly in shock. His daughter? Charlie looked again. There had been many
intervening years, but she was unmistakable - Gemma.

About Mike J Smith

A scientist who has spent his working life drafting reports and technical articles, staying within the strictures of the third person and being precise in the use of language. His reading is entirely science based revolving around journal articles and technical books.

Any free time is spent taking photos and reading about photography. He has a number of articles published in photography magazines. As editor of a science journal he spends much time reviewing and copy editing the writing of others. He has not written fiction since high school and Ark was his first foray. He thoroughly enjoyed contributing and says 'it was a blast!'.